


All That I Could Sing

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Community: wrestlingkink, D/s undertones, Light Bondage, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:16:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3160856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fingers in his hair twisted tighter, a tug angling his head so that Roman's lips fell next to his ear.  “I may not be able to make you see it, but you are damn sure going to hear every word I have to say.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That I Could Sing

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt at the wonder that is the [Wrestling Kink Meme](http://wrestlingkink.dreamwidth.org):
> 
>  
> 
> _Everyone knows Dean's messed up but not many people realize just how messed he is. Dean's nearly physically incapable of accepting gentleness/kindness and has to be held down and completely dominated into accepting it._  
>  Luckily Roman is more than ok with doing that for him.
> 
>  
> 
> and cross-posted to [ the prompt's meme sub-thread](http://wrestlingkink.dreamwidth.org/279.html?thread=27671#cmt27671).

“You ready to behave?” Roman asked, his voice hard and warm and steady, like the hand that held Dean's wrists against the sheets above his head and the knee that dug into his thigh, while Roman's weight pressed him into the mattress. 

“You ready to make me?” He made sure to put a sneer on his face. The one that had always pressed Roman's buttons, even before they were drinking buddies or brothers or everything else they've become. 

“If that's the way your contrary ass is going to be,” Roman said evenly. With his free hand, he reached for Dean's belt, deftly unfastening the buckle as Dean thrashed beneath him. Roman shifted with him, pinning Dean's legs ever-more-effectively, and using the movement to draw the length of leather free from around his waist. 

“What're you gonna do with that?” He tipped his chin up in defiance, even as all the possibilities twisted his stomach with the kind of uncertainty that was more good than bad. 

Roman tipped forward, looming over him, powerful and dangerous and benevolent. “Whatever I decide is good for you.” 

He blinked and looked away from that resolute grey gaze, and in that space, Roman reached down to cinch the belt around his wrists. He bucked and writhed, alley-cat through and through, but didn't manage to shake Roman off. Roman had better leverage, and, though he didn't throw his weight around all that often outside the ring, forty-odd pounds on Dean. Probably had the edge in determination, too; the part of Dean that wanted to escape was loud – screaming bloody murder inside his head to drown out Roman's impossibly soft words – but smaller every minute. 

“You ready to take what you've got coming?” Roman growled.

He pulled at the belt coiled around his wrists, just tight enough to let him know it was there, holding him fast. He tested Roman's hold, shifting ineffectually beneath the weight pressing onto him chest to knee. The blade of Roman's forearm pressed against his throat, and he wondered if he could feel the quickness of his pulse, the way his throat worked while he made up his mind. 

He nodded, just once, the couple days' worth of scruff on his chin catching against Roman's skin. 

“And who's going to decide what you deserve?” 

He didn't answer immediately, but let his chest rise and fall against Roman's for a few shallow breaths instead. He thought about talking back some more; he'd run out of breath long before he'd run out of smart-ass remarks, and Roman could – _would_ , he recognized with a sharp ache – go around with him all night. “You.”

“That's right,” Roman said, low and confident and approving. “But, first, you're going to ask for it.”

Dean risked meeting his eyes again: still warm and unwavering, pinning him as effortlessly as if he'd just been laid out with a spear. 

“You got something to say about that?”

He let his eyes slide shut and angled his chin up. “Gimme what I deserve.”

“Good.” Roman's arm pressed tighter against his throat, and for a long moment all Dean felt was that careful pressure and the throb of his own heart, quick and heavy under his vulnerable skin. 

Then the arm moved away – Roman's gravity shifting above him – and there were light fingers twisting in his hair and lips trailing over his forehead, softer than the beard that scratched at his skin in their wake. 

“You. Are. So. Good.” Roman pressed each word into his skin with a kiss: eyebrow, temple, cheekbone, jaw, and he tried not to flinch. Tried to suppress the tremor that jolted along his spine and through all his limbs. Failed, of course, the sting of embarrassment sweetening the ache in his gut.

“This is hard, I know,” Roman said, his thumb stroking lazy circles against the inside of Dean's wrist just below the place where the belt bit lightly into him. “And I'm so proud of you. You're so much stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

He scoffed. Strong. Right. That was why he was cringing and shaking like a beaten dog, like Roman wasn't just trying to do what regular people, _good_ people, did for their partners. 

“Hey.” Roman's voice went low and hard again, clearly done with Dean's bullshit. The knot in his chest eased a little at finding himself back on familiar turf with that tone, the one people usually adopted before they gave up and left him the fuck alone. But Roman hadn't left him alone, not even when he'd been at his most insufferable, tried his hardest to drive him away before he got too used to having him. And he wasn't going anywhere now. 

Instead, the fingers in his hair twisted tighter, a tug angling his head so that Roman's lips fell next to his ear. “I may not be able to make you see it, but you are damn sure going to hear every word I have to say.”

He twisted in Roman's grasp again, testing it, and finding himself held steady. 

“You're not going anywhere.” Roman's voice was a low rumble in his ear, rolling through his own chest and deep into Dean's. “Not until I've had my say. Tell me you understand.” 

His heart picked up again, pounding heavy under his hot skin. The tremor that rolled through him this time was different, easier. He nodded, the motion pulling his hair taut against Roman's grip. “Yeah. Got it.”

“Good.” Roman pressed another kiss against his cheek. “Gonna give you everything you deserve.” His mouth traced the line of Dean's jaw, teeth grazing his skin in a light tease. “Make you feel so good.”

He tilted his head, catching Roman's lips with his own. The angle wasn't quite right, but that had never been the kind of shit that mattered between them anyway, and Roman gave back everything he brought, sloppy and breathless or not. 

“I know what you're doing,” Roman said, breaking away to mouth at his neck. “It's not a bad idea.” Roman shifted, resettling over him, one thigh pressing hard between Dean's own, hip dragging slow and a little filthy over the hard-on straining against his jeans. “No surprise, 'cause you're kinda fucking brilliant.” The hand that had lingered at Dean's wrists skimmed down his arm and settled, warm and familiar, over his ribs. “And your mouth is pretty amazing.” He sucked none-too-gently at the skin over Dean's collarbone, raising a bruise that'd be covered by his ring-gear, and pulling a low, rough sound out of his throat. “But so's the rest of you.”

One hand stayed tangled in Dean's hair – sometimes tugging at it to position him the way Roman wanted him, sometimes stroking it back from his face with a tenderness that threatened to close up Dean's throat around a jagged noise, always anchoring him in the moment – while the other traveled over his skin, tracing the solid edges of his bones, ridges and valleys of hard-earned muscle, toughened lines and uneven whorls of scar tissue from fucking death matches that had hurt less than listening to the litany of praises Roman poured out on him. 

Every light touch and soft word dragged another sound out of him: sighs and moans and whispered curses. And sometimes, when Roman was kissing words like _cherished, precious, important, incomparable, irreplaceable, loved_ into the exposed skin of his throat, a high, thin whine. A pathetic noise of fear and pain that he couldn't swallow, even though he knew it hurt Roman to listen to. 

Each time, while his already-flushed skin burned with fresh shame, Roman's hands on him changed: heavier, possessive, more authoritative. His body would settle more completely over top of Dean's, weight and warmth wrapping around him, wordless reminders that he couldn't run from this. Didn't need to. 

After a long moment, when his eyes stopped burning, he'd nod or rasp out an “okay”, and Roman would pick up where they'd left off, as though Dean had never needed to force a break. Like all of this was normal and pleasurable, instead of just another way Dean was irreparably fucked up.

Somewhere in the stop-and-start of it all, Roman had loosed his hold long enough to strip them both of jeans and underwear, leaving nothing between them but Roman's deep voice and the breathy noises his hand was wringing out of Dean. 

“Beautiful.” Roman had never really quit talking to him, but he was down to single, piercing words now, his own breath coming in gasps and little sighs that settled low and sweet in Dean's belly. 

It was the way Roman's breath had turned into a heavy pant against his skin, as much as the friction and the easy familiarity of their bodies falling into rhythm, that dropped him over the edge. He arched into Roman's body, his face tucking into the curve of his neck, and found himself laughing when Roman followed just behind him, murmuring a ragged refrain of _good_ s into his hair. 

When they'd caught their breath, more or less, Roman leaned over him again, reached up and unspooled the belt from around his wrists. He discarded it next to the bed, with the rest of their clothes, and let Dean bring his hands down from over his head. 

Dean could have escaped from the binding any time he needed to, but the illusion helped ease something deep in his chest. Roman probably didn't understand it, exactly – Dean wasn't even sure _he_ did most of the time – but he did it for him without question or hesitation or drama. 

Roman pulled a sheet over them and settled back down beside him. “Shoulder okay?” he asked, settling a warm hand over the tricky one, kneading gently at the knotted muscle. 

“As it ever is,” Dean mumbled, and let himself drift along with the haze that always filled him up after being with Roman this way: the simple buzz of getting off blended with the lazy looseness of having all the strain momentarily worked out of him, nothing to hold him down but his brother's arm. 

“So, I've gotta tell you one more thing.” 

Dean felt himself tense, back going straight, heart picking up time. He knew Roman would feel it, too, and tried to make it a joke. “Better tie me back up.”

“Do whatever you need,” Roman said simply, the truth of it so much easier for him to offer than it had ever been – or probably would ever be – for Dean to take. “But I know you don't think I need that to keep you in line.” 

One of Roman's legs draped over his own thigh, and the arm looped over his chest banded around him securely, and that was enough. It was good. He dragged in a slow breath, and settled into the hold. 

“You deserve to know how blessed I feel to get this part of you.” Roman's voice had lost the heavy note of command Dean clung to in these moments, dropping into a raw whisper against his temple. “I love being the one who gets to do this for you. Thank you for letting me.” 

“Yeah, well, I'm a pretty generous guy,” he ground out, mostly so that Roman's words wouldn't be the last ones hanging between them, hoarse and heavy and tender enough to slice him open to the bone. 

“Yeah, everybody says that about you,” Roman said dryly. 

That was good, too. Dean turned into him and laughed, easy and grateful.


End file.
